Cops and Robbers
by ArgentNoelle
Summary: "Joker's Millions" AU. What if the money *wasn't* fake? Will Joker get tired of being an upstanding member of society? Will Harley ever convince him to buy her way out of Arkham? And will Bruce find out what Joker's evil plan is *this* time? (Because he *always* has an evil plan. Doesn't he?) [Batjokes; JxHQ; HarlIvy]
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** I've had the idea for this novella-ish-thing and have been working on it on and off for at least a few years now. I originally planned for it to be more fleshed-out — to take more time with the story than the 14,000-ish words it ended up as — but finally decided that wasn't going to happen. So it's a little more fast-paced, more like a series of vignettes, and you probably have to have seen "Joker's Millions" to get it, since it's an AU specifically of that episode of BTAS and draws heavily from those events.

One of the things that always fascinated me the most about "Joker's Millions" was the fact that Joker just decided to stop being a supervillain, because of no other reason than: "why not?" — and it worked. Until he ran out of money. It seems to the be the basis of a lot of Joker-centric stories, both published and fanfic, that Joker couldn't just *stop* being a villain; that he's too tied up in his obsessions or psychological problems for that to ever work out. But DCAU Joker, apparently, had no issue with that — at least for the short term. It's a different game than he usually plays, for sure. Might he have gotten bored of it and gone back to a life of crime? Quite possibly. But because the inheritance he got was fake, he ran out of money before that could be tested.

This AU asks the question, **what would have happened if the money *wasn't* fake?**

While this takes place entirely in the DCAU, the story is equally inspired by the comic "Going Sane" — in which Joker, thinking he's killed Batman, loses his memory and becomes an ordinary (though haunted) member of society again... but Batman (who, surprise! is not dead) doesn't buy it for a second... he is convinced that the evil, villainous Joker has something up his sleeve — and he won't rest (or stop stalking Joker) until he's figured out what it is.

In a sense, this AU is also: **what if you told the story "Going Sane" in the DCAU, instead of the comics? (and with no amnesia.)**

The story owes a further indebtedness to the Telltale Batman series, for use of Joker's lovely green shirt. :)

* * *

· _prologue _·

* * *

Joker was lost in his plans of exotic deathtraps designed to lure in the Bat, and couldn't be bothered to commit a run-of-the-mill robbery, while Harley peered at their almost-empty tank of gas. It wasn't a fortuitous start to the day.

"If you want money so badly, why don't you buy a ticket to the lottery?" Joker groused, when Harley brought up their situation again, petting Bud and Lou's heads sympathetically as they snapped at her, angry at not having enough food. They had a couple of frozen steaks left, at least; Harley was running on scraps, and there was no way she'd starve her pets before her. She side-eyed an unfortunate rat in the beat-up walls while Bud and Lou trained their hunters' senses on it. Living with Mister J had its highs and lows. There'd been times when they could afford the bigger warehouses and the swankier hotels (that didn't care who you were or where you'd gotten your money). This beat-up old apartment was the lows.

Harley sighed, and tried to remember that she was the reasonable one here, and there was no call for her to drag Mistah J from his chair and shove his head into the fridge so he could see the few crusty pieces of mold (and nothing else) for himself. "But no one ever wins the lottery, puddin'," she said.

"Nothing!" Joker said, dramatically, tearing through a bunch of boxes. Harley sighed. "We have nothing! Where's all my gadgets? My toys?"

"Used up, Boss," Harley said.

"Why haven't you gotten more?" he asked, rounding on her in annoyance.

"Because we don't have money," Harley repeated. "Like I said?"

Joker only stared at her.

Maybe she should buy a couplea tickets. She'd have to spend her last few bucks on something, before they finally called it quits and went back to Arkham.

She wasn't entirely surprised (though she was certainly annoyed) that her puddin' ditched her on an ejector seat when the Bat finally caught up to their little stunt, and honestly, by the time she'd gotten checked into the Asylum and caught up with Ivy (who just couldn't resist needling her about the Joker's actions, because she was a wet blanket) she'd entirely forgotten the tickets she'd left lying on the old table in their place.

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	2. Chapter 2

The loudly obnoxious invitation was in bright purple and green, as if to make sure the recipient would know just who it was from. Bruce looked at it in distaste, pushing back his cowl, and stared up at the banks of computers in front of him. He'd already done every analysis he could on the material—there was no toxin, no hidden code; to all appearances it was a perfectly ordinary card, colors aside.

The Joker had always been an unpredictable menace, but after his sudden acquisition of wealth his antics had been focused less on murder and mayhem than an elaborate stunt to spend his money like water while acting out a broad parody of the lifestyle of the rich. And somehow, he always managed to be _there_, even when Bruce would rather have forgotten about him.

_It's preferable to his usual ways_, Bruce reminded himself. But the discomfort lingered. Just because the other shoe hadn't dropped _yet_ didn't mean it wouldn't.

"What's that?" Tim asked, peering over Bruce's shoulder. "Is that from the Joker? Is it a threat?"

"It's an invitation," Bruce said, wearily, leaning back to make space as Tim climbed up to perch on the edge of the chair, feet swinging, taking the card from his hand and looking it over critically.

"He's hosting a party for Gotham's elite."

"So are you gonna go?" Tim asked. Bruce grunted. He had an incredible urge burn the letter and damn the consequences, but the thought of the havoc the Joker might wreak on an innocent populous stayed him.

Yes," he said at last. "It will be an excuse to keep an eye on him."

"Not that you need one," Tim muttered sideways under his breath. Bruce did not dignify his words with a response.

/

"Bruce WAYNE," the Joker said, coming up to his guest and smiling jovially. The billionaire had spent the evening standing beside a table and making small talk to whomever approached him, but had made no effort to look as though he was enjoying himself. This wasn't an undercover mission, just a reconnaissance until things inevitably went south, and it would work as well from here as anywhere. "My my, I think we've met, haven't we."

"Have we?" Bruce asked blandly, standing apparently relaxed and unconcerned at the sudden aggressive presence of the host in his space, a fact which, to Batman's experienced gaze, thoroughly annoyed the clown. "I don't recall."

"Oh, I think you _do_… that time Mr. Kaiser had made a little casino in my name, and we had the honor of playing cards…"

Bruce blinked. An almost imperceptible show of surprise.

"Yes, that was me," the Joker continued. "It's funny how close one gets to death sometimes without knowing so, isn't it?" he leaned against the table beside Bruce, just a little too close, and Bruce looked over at him to meet his dark, glittering eyes. "Of course," he continued, "I'm reformed now; cured by the good doctors of Arkham."

"My congratulations," Bruce said, holding his glass up slightly in the Joker's direction.

The Joker continued, after a long and speculative look over Bruce's drink, "You're a very strange man, Bruce Wayne. You're not afraid of me. Not many men could say that." He paused. "Fewer have survived."

"I suppose it's good that you've changed your ways, then," Bruce said, with a fake chuckle, and took a slight sip from his glass. "Anyway, I don't see _them_ being particularly afraid of you." He nodded over to the mingling crowd that was taking advantage of the Joker's hospitality. The Joker waved over one of the servers (slightly subdued for the occasion, though the Joker's version of _subdued_ included larger amounts of purple and garish patterns than anyone else's). "Them? They're starstruck," the Joker said dismissively. "It's just my natural charm."

Bruce privately agreed with the assessment, but didn't say so out loud.

It was strange standing next to the Joker without the protection of his armor. The Joker was right when he said Bruce wasn't afraid of him, but there was a hyperawareness of their positions and of how far he could push at any given moment. Perhaps he wasn't immune to the thrill, the wild recklessness that had driven the other partygoers to accept an invitation from a notorious killer.

The difference was, he knew what he was doing, and he was aware of the possible consequences. They were not.

"Charm?" Bruce asked, lightly. "I wasn't aware you had any." The Joker watched him as though wondering what it would be like to strangle him, but all he did was grip his glass a little tighter, and after a moment, take a careless drink. He set it on the edge of the buffet, grinning wide with shark teeth. "We met at a bad time. I'm really very pleasant, once you get to know me."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and Joker laughed. "Not convinced?"

"Not very, no," Bruce said blandly. There was a silence long enough to become uncomfortable, probably calculated precisely for that effect. He took the opportunity to browse the buffet for more hors d'oeuvres, deliberately ignoring the presence at his side.

"So tell me, Brucie," Joker said, slowly, watching him place a small tartlet onto his place. "You can't be as perfect as you want the press to believe."

"I'd hardly say my image is perfect," Bruce said, amused.

Joker waved a hand. "A few blemishes here and there, artfully placed. It's humanizing. Where did you learn to cheat at cards?"

"It's Bruce. And I think you'll find it was nothing more than beginner's luck," Bruce said smoothly.

"Save it for the cameras," Joker said sourly. In a moment, he continued. "Is everyone with money as much of a _liar_ as you are?"

"You'd have to ask them," Bruce said.

"No, no, but you're different," Joker muttered under his breath, dropping his gaze as though for a moment he'd forgotten Bruce's presence. He tilted the wine in his glass till it hovered just on the brink of overflowing. "Must be the dead parents. Is that it?"

"Surprisingly, tragedy doesn't pass anyone by," Bruce snapped, speaking before he thought better of it. "Even the privileged. I assume you would know, having caused enough of them yourself."

Joker looked up, a hidden, calculating look in his dark eyes. Bruce did not react, but recognized the hint of something dangerous. He wondered at the reasons for his own vehement reply. Was it merely a restlessness, disgust with the charade the Joker put forth to the world, and one they swallowed eagerly, without a thought? The thought of provoking the Joker to action held a grim satisfaction that Batman did not deny. For the taunt to reach Bruce would mean vulnerability, an unexpected opening in his guard. One he hadn't noticed.

"Tragedy and I are old friends," Joker said, the tone of his voice indecipherable. He put down his glass, Bruce watching the movement as though the liquor in it contained a bomb.

"You live the same carefree life as all the rest of these deluded creatures. Does it hurt, going against your true nature?"

"You tell me," Bruce said.

The Joker smiled. "Touché. And my true nature?"

"A madman. A killer. Someone too dangerous to let out into the public."

"But not too dangerous for you."

Bruce hesitated, sensing the perilous ground of that quietly spoken sentence. "Too dangerous for anywhere but a padded cell."

The Joker's lips thinned in annoyance, but he recovered quickly, and smiled. "As dangerous as all that? I'm flattered. I'll put it in my scrapbook. Maybe I can show my therapist."

Bruce spared a thought for whoever that unfortunate person was now, and hoped they would get out of the Joker's game alive and still halfway sane.

/

"So how'd the party go?" Tim asked.

"It's past your bedtime," Bruce said, walking to his room.

"Not well, then," Tim said. He ran to catch up to Bruce, unfazed by the brooding figure. "Joker didn't start attacking people, or you'd look angry, not grumpy. Is _that_ why you're grumpy? 'Cause he didn't make trouble?"

"Nothing happened at the party, Tim," Bruce said, stopping at the door. "I don't know what I thought I'd find there."

"Hm." Tim peered at him critically, obviously trying to piece together the facts. Batman thought, distractedly, that he'd been a good choice for a Robin, even if it hadn't exactly been part of the plan.

/

Two weeks later, and he was staring at another card, this time an invitation to a smaller get-together on a yacht. Bruce stared at it, baffled. He hadn't even known Joker had _bought_ a yacht. And why was _he_ invited? He hadn't tried to make an impression on Joker, particularly; and he was aware that this apparent interest directed to him was potentially dangerous. Yet it would make it easier to keep an eye on the Joker—and a small get-together on a yacht was a perfect excuse for the Joker's villainous activities. Kidnapping for ransom? Perhaps that could explain it. Bruce took the batsuit Alfred had packed in his briefcase and reminded Tim not to get involved in this case unless he was ordered to.

"Sure," Tim said, rolling his eyes. He didn't seem as on-edge as Bruce about the matter. He'd pointed out that in Bruce's surveillance, he hadn't seen any evidence of unsavory dealings with the yacht, and reminded him that the joker's last party had turned out to be innocuous. That was all true, but it only made Bruce more suspicious. Joker was… _Joker_. He was always up to something. Anything evil or depraved that could be dreamt up, Joker had done it, or tried to. Not being able to tease out his plans, to be able to think ahead and figure out damage control, made him deeply unsettled. None of this fit the Joker's usual pattern.

There were only a few people invited; less than ten altogether. Penguin was one of them, along with a few of the rich that he particularly disliked, after his own disastrous attempts to be accepted into high society. Cobblepot seemed to recognize the slight, but he'd come regardless.

"I like to keep an eye on things like 'the Joker'…" Cobblepot said, gesturing slightly with his umbrella, as the two stood to the side of the small gathering at the edge of the yacht, backs to the glittering water. It was a perfect day for a joyride; the sun bright, the air warm, the breeze cool but not too strong. Bruce was unsurprised to find a few of his past celebrity dates in attendance, but noticed that they were all ones who had publically ended on bad terms with him. It seemed the two were thrown together as Joker's dubious guests of honor. "It doesn't do to be surprised in my line of work."

"Really?" Bruce said, all innocence. "I didn't know running a nightclub involved keeping track of criminal activities."

Cobblepot squawked, and the edge of his mouth tilted up in a mocking half-smile. "We are in Gotham, my dear Mr. Wayne. Keeping track of 'criminal activities' is merely insurance."

Bruce laughed. "I can't argue with that."

"Pengy!" Joker said, striding over to the two with a dangerous smile. "Pal, there you are. You should mingle! This is a gathering among friends, you know."

"So I see," Cobblepot said stiffly, obviously seething at being called by yet another disliked nickname. Joker laughed, more in amusement than in threat, and Penguin rolled his eyes.

"Now now, you act like I brought you here to torture you."

"I wouldn't imply such a thing," Penguin said, with his trademark bravado. A bead of sweat was trailing its way down his hairline, which Bruce noted with interest; but he stood otherwise quite casually in the Joker's presence, looking him in the eye. Joker, who had, on occasion, professed the seemingly sincere sentiment that the Penguin was his best friend—which Penguin dared not contradict him on—was in a chummy mood to be sure.

"I've never been able to invite you to my establishment before," Joker said. "Consider it payback for your hospitality on so many occasions. I don't forget my debts, you know," he added, in a darker voice.

"I understand," Cobblepot said, in a strangled sort of gasp.

A reference to something? Bruce wondered. Perhaps the yacht was a cover of some sort after all. But if all the Joker wanted to do was talk to the Penguin, he could have gone to the Iceberg Lounge to do it. This seemed more like a show of power, an effort to humiliate, maybe some move in a larger game.

"Perhaps I will take you up on your offer to mingle," Cobblepot said at last, breaking gaze with the Joker. He tipped his hat. "Mr. Wayne."

Joker watched Cobblepot waddling off with his eyes glittering in thought, before turning to Bruce.

"You seem very interested in the Penguin, Bruce. Friend of yours?"

"I've seen him around," Bruce said, "but not really."

"That's good," Joker said. "He's a little too slippery. I wouldn't like to think of you getting _tangled_ in his nets."

Bruce couldn't help but be amused by this description of the Penguin. If there was any villain easier to deal with than Cobblepot, he hadn't met them. But Joker suddenly seemed insistent on painting the man as a threat.

"And how have _you_ been, Brucie? A man like you must get bored."

"No, not really," Bruce said blandly. "If I get tired of something, I can always pick up another hobby."

"Ah, yes… adrenaline junkie, aren't you? I think I remember reading about that, in one of those magazines."

"Just a little," Bruce said.

"Bird-watching too, if I recall," Joker said. "Is _that_ why you were interested in him?"

Bruce coughed to cover up a startled laugh. "Well, I'm just an amateur really," he said.

"You've been published in a few journals. I've done my homework."

"Really?" Bruce said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or afraid."

Joker smiled. "Oh, afraid, most definitely," he said.

_He's right,_ Bruce thought. _I shouldn't be taking this so blasé._ But it would be more than suspicious if he acted put-off now, all of a sudden. The airhead act had done him good in the past, and with luck, it would fool the Joker as well. And there was still that part of him that refused to give Joker the satisfaction of seeing him intimidated.

* * *

Notes: I don't know if it originally came from somewhere else, but the reference to Bruce's interest in bird-watching was inspired by **Third Wheel** by Unpretty (which is a retelling of the STAS/BTAS crossover World's Finest, & is AWESOME) archiveofourown (dot org) (slash) works /6918955 /chapters /15784000

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	3. Chapter 3

"This is the third time we've run into each other at golf," Joker said, swinging a mangled club around. "Are you stalking me or am I stalking you?"

"I think you'd call it a coincidence," Bruce said tightly, stepping in front of his date, who gasped and looked at Joker with some trepidation.

"Amanda, why don't you go get—"

"Yes," she said, interrupting him. "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

He spared a reassuring smile her way. "I'll be fine." She seemed doubtful, but walked away quickly, and Bruce felt marginally more reassured.

"Trying to get time alone with me, Bruce?" Joker said. He grinned. "Not that I mind."

"I saw your ad in the paper," Bruce said.

"So you _are_ stalking me," Joker said gleefully, and Bruce paused, slightly thrown from his planned tirade. "I don't think you'll make the cut, but it's nice to know you're interested."

"What?" Bruce spluttered. "I'm not—I'm not going to try out to be Harley."

"Oh." Somehow, Joker almost seemed disappointed at his answer. "Well, I'm sure I'll find someone."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Bruce said. Joker shrugged, looking at a golf ball still sitting at their feet from his abandoned game with Amanda, and swung wildly at it. Bruce winced as his club dug its way into the ground and ploughed a furrow into the dirt without ever having touched the ball.

"You need to use finesse, not just force," Bruce said. "It's not like— hitting someone in a fight, you know. You have to take into account the angle of the swing and where the ball is."

"Golf is boring," Joker said petulantly, dropping his club and kicking it away.

Bruce chuckled. "That's because you're doing it wrong."

Joker turned to him, voice flat and dangerous. "Really."

"Yes, really," Bruce said. "Are you even trying? You're a genius, I'm sure you could figure it out if you really wanted to learn. And… unless you're planning to do it competitively, the point isn't necessarily to win, you know. It's more of an excuse to hang out, talk, get outside…" he trailed off, suddenly unsure how and why he'd gotten on a roll trying to justify the merits of golf to the _Joker_ of all people. He didn't even like golf.

Joker frowned. "So you're supposed to do it with someone else," he said.

"Well, obv…." Bruce stopped short, suddenly picturing how the Joker's other exercises in this game must have gone. There really wasn't anything more boring than trying to swing a ball into a hole, over and over again, by yourself. "You've never done it with anyone?"

"Who would be up for that?" Joker said, bitterly. "I'm not exactly a popular guy."

"Are you serious?" Bruce said. "How many parties have you hosted by now?"

"Three," Joker said. "You might not realize this, _Bruce_, but that's a little different from playing golf."

"True," Bruce said. There was something about the way Joker stared at the ground, coiled tension in his clenched fists and the lines of his arms, that seemed more familiar than anything that had happened between them so far, and it made him wonder for the first time what he was even _doing_ here.

Bruce opened his mouth to make his excuses, but found himself saying instead, "listen, I can show you how to play, if you want."

Joker looked over at him in confusion that soon turned to disgust. "I don't need to be condescended to, Wayne, just because I don't know how to play golf."

"What? I wasn't…" Bruce found himself getting annoyed. "I wasn't condescending to you. It was a genuine offer. Take it or leave it."

/

"Dick," Bruce said, with a smile. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"I thought I'd swing by," Dick said. He grinned. "So… how'd your date with the Joker go?"

Bruce scowled. "Not funny."

"Hey," Dick protested. "Tim's been telling me about it all day, I had to say _something_."

"Master Bruce," Alfred said, "why don't you go get cleaned up before starting another argument, will you?"

"I didn't do anything," Bruce protested, but capitulated at Alfred's stern expression. As he left the room, he could hear Tim complaining, "he taught him to play _golf_. Does no one else think that's weird?"

"Everything the Joker does is weird," Dick said. "I'm sure Bruce had his reasons."

The fact that Dick actually trusted his judgment—unlike _some people_—made Bruce feel slightly better, but something still unsettled him about the afternoon. He'd come up with no new info regarding the Joker's plans. Sure, he could argue that teaching the Joker to play golf had kept him out of trouble for a few hours, but to be perfectly honest, Tim was right. The Joker hadn't been _making_ trouble. At least not the obvious kind. Whatever his plans were—whatever this replacement Harley had to do with it—the Joker had been tight-lipped about it. All he would say was that he wanted Harley, and it was easier to hire a new one than buy the original out of Arkham. Bruce wasn't certain if that sentiment was Joker's only reasoning, but he sincerely doubted it.

/

"I'll haveta report you for speeding, sir," Harley said, leaning against the Joker's car.

"But I wasn't even in the—" Joker blinked, and then grinned. "Harley! Pumpkin pie! I've missed you!"

"Yeah?" Harley drawled. She waited until the Joker was in the car and had driven them out of the middle of the road to the kind of winding alleys where they would be less likely to be noticed before she continued. He was chatting all the while, saying something about how glad he was to have her back. _Sure_. _Thing_. But Harley wasn't gonna let him off the hook that easy. She tapped her nightstick against her hand, slowly, until the Joker's rambling trailed off and he began to eye her with some trepidation.

"You know I'm a forgiving sort of gal," Harley said.

"Sure," Joker agreed, but Harley put a finger to his lips. Joker swallowed, looking from side to side for an avenue of escape, but Harley slid forward a bit. Sure, he _might_ be able to jump out the side of the convertible, but they were down a dead-end alley.

"I let you get away with a lot, don't I?" Harley said, and Joker nodded.

Harley's grin sharpened into something very, very dangerous and cold, and her nightstick _whacked_ suddenly into her hand, making the Joker jump. "But there's one thing you don't get to do, Mister, and that's _replace me_. I. Am. Your. Henchgirl. _Ain't that right, Mistah J_?"

"N… now Harley," Joker said, holding a hand up in a placating gesture. "You don't understand…"

"I'll show you 'don't understand,'" Harley said in disgust, cracking the nightstick down on his arm. Joker jerked away.

"Ow, ow, Harley, stop, please, I can explain…"

Harley swung again. _Crack_. _Bam_. _Pow_.

"Please…" Joker whimpered. "Stop…"

Harley rolled her eyes. "You think I'm gonna feel _sorry_ for you?"

"It was worth a try," Joker mumbled, from under the protective tent he'd made of his arms.

_Whack_!

_"That hurt_!" Joker yelled.

"I'm not surprised," Harley said, tartly. _Slam_!

It was rather _too_ satisfying to see Joker cowering away from her, but she tried to reign herself in. She didn't want to send him to the hospital. That would mess with her plans. Unlike _some people_, she had restraint.

A little.

Maybe.

She was _pissed_.

"I'm sorry!" Joker said.

Harley paused, letting the stick lose momentum to hover right before the Joker's chest. "What was that?"

"I'm sorry," Joker said. The funny thing was, he actually seemed sincere. It was that that set Harley back on her heels. She stared at him for a moment, until Joker began to babble.

"I thought it would be easier, you know? Just get a new one, like, it's not like there would be a difference, right?" he said.

_Slam_!

_"_W-wait! But there was!" Joker said. "I mean… yeah. She looked like you, in costume. But… she didn't sound like you. Or move like you. She never had any good ideas and always just hung around doing her nails and talking in that screechy harridan way until I wanted to shoot her—"

Harley giggled. "She… really?"

"Yes," Joker said pathetically, with an expression of purest woe. "It was _horrible_."

Harley slid onto Joker's lap. "I think that should teach you a lesson," she said softly, still laughing.

"I've been taught," Joker said. "You're… you're really irreplaceable, Harley. I don't know why."

"You bet I am," Harley said. "And you're gonna buy me out of Arkham, aren't you, Mistah J?"

"Buy you out? That is a lot of money… er… Of course I will!"

"Good," Harley said. "Swear on it."

Joker held out his pinky and she held out hers. He was serious, she thought. He was going to do it. He might have even done it without her beating him up first, but where was the fun in that? She couldn't let him think he could get away with just anything.

"Now," Harley said, looking up at him through her lashes and speaking in a sultry voice. "Drive me home?"

Joker's eyes lit up. "Well… I don't know, officer," he purred. "I might end up speeding. Are you sure you wouldn't mind?" He turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the alley, smashing into a pile of trashcans as he did.

"Hm," Harley said. "I'll believe it when I see it, buster."

Joker laughed and swung an arm around her as he steered with one hand. Harley kept her own hand close to the wheel in case he got distracted, and Joker leaned forward to kiss her.

Ah well, who needed a beat-up old alley anyway? The bricks would be fine, even if they crashed.

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	4. Chapter 4

The news that Harley Quinn had been pronounced sane and was being processed out of Arkham was of no surprise. Word of her escape had never gone on the official records—and neither had the Joker's bribery, though bribery it most certainly was.

"How do you feel about Harley Quinn being released?"

"Are you still in a committed relationship?"

"You're not afraid being around each other will cause you to relapse?"

The Joker answered each question will an easy smile and a carefully-phrased answer; the newscasters ate up the charm, the tension of the "reformed villain" backstory. Bruce had to admit—it was a hell of a story. The Joker played it up, spoke with humor when humor was necessary and every so often, a flash of seriousness that was enough to convince anyone the moon was made of green cheese.

When the broadcast was over, Bruce made his way backstage. He didn't have a pass, but no one bothered him when he walked purposefully toward the Joker's dressing room. He pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it with crossed arms.

The Joker met his gaze in the mirror; he was wiping away the television-friendly makeup, his head framed below the uncovered bulbs staggering their way around the mirror. For a moment Bruce saw himself as a stranger—a dizzying double image of an amiable playboy and a cold, watchful fighter, standing in the back of the room like a bodyguard looking for trouble.

"Bruce," Joker said, unfazed to find that the billionaire had entered. He smiled a genuine smile, and Bruce stared back, expressionless. "You watched my show?"

"Yes," Bruce said. "It was very well acted." His voice tilted, putting emphasis on the _act_.

Joker grinned as he threw away the used makeup wipes and took a stick of lipstick from his coat. "I'm glad you liked it," he said, staring himself down in the mirror as he re-formed his smile. Bruce couldn't help but watch, noticing the practiced concentration of the movement. And the sleeve of the Joker's shirt slipped down the slightest inch—exposing a wrist purpled and yellowed with bruises, harsh against his stark white skin.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. For a moment, he wondered—a fight? But he had been keeping close tabs on the Joker's movements, and he liked to think that if the Joker had been up to his criminal acts he would have caught it (but he _hadn't_, had he?)

Then the pieces assembled themselves. The quick turnaround of Harley's case. Her covered up escape three days ago. And the bruises.

"What's that on your wrist?" Bruce said, voice calm.

Joker looked back at him, for a moment without understanding, and then he frowned, reaching toward his sleeve. He stopped the motion, as if realizing it was too late, and shrugged, a carefully unconcerned motion. "Ah—I'm a little bit _clumsy_ sometimes," he said. "My arm just hit a pole!" he laughed.

Bruce stepped forward, taking the Joker by the wrist tight enough to force a hiss of discomfort from him. "If you want me to believe it's an accident, you have to do better than that."

The Joker stared at him with dark eyes, and his grin stretched back. "Oh, Brucie, I never said it was an _accident_."

Bruce kept hold of the Joker's arm implacably, meeting his gaze until the Joker sighed. "All right, all right, you don't have to be so _dour_. Harley and I got into a fight." He pulled away his arm.

"Harley and you got into a fight," Bruce echoed. "You know she's still in Arkham."

Joker scoffed. "Come on, Bruce, I know you've been keeping tabs on me—heaven knows _why_…" he glanced Bruce's way. "Having a little crush?" he said, lightly. When Bruce said nothing, he continued. "You know about Harley's escape."

"And the fact that her release from Arkham is a sham."

"It's as real as it needs to be," Joker answered. "And if it keeps her happy, what does it matter?"

Bruce turned away, but he could feel the Joker's eyes on him, curious, like a kid with a rubik's cube. "What's bothering you?" Joker asked at last, half-exasperated.

"Why'd you let her beat you up?"

"_Let_ her? What, do you think I'm some sort of masochist?"

Bruce turned back at that, raised an eyebrow; and the Joker's mouth quirked. "Okay. Except for Batman. Let's just say _that's different_."

"Then why…"

The Joker's brow furrowed. "Are you worried she's abusing me?"

"No," Bruce said. He walked to the far wall, stared at it, paced back. "You abuse her. Fourteen broken bones from falling out a window… bruises and a concussion after a heist gone wrong, another broken bone abandoning her to cops while you left in a speedboat…" Bruce stopped himself from going on to list injuries the public never knew about, information that only someone who was there—or someone with Arkham's records—would know.

The Joker stared at him, head tilted slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. "You really follow these things, don't you." He tapped his fingers on the table, meditatively. "I don't know what to tell you Bruce—you know neither of us are what you'd call totally _compos mentis_. I mean, personally—what's love without danger? Can it even exist?"

"Of course it can. Normal relationships—"

"I'm not talking about 'normal relationships'," the Joker cut him off. "I'm talking about love."

Bruce turned around, faced Joker straight on. "You're saying love and violence are the same thing."

"I'm saying they can't be extricated from each other. I'm saying passion isn't something _safe_, something simple. Why do think Sophocles ever wrote Antigone? Or Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet? They understood—love and death, love and _tragedy_. You can't have one without the other—love pushes you toward the end, and there's nothing you can do to stop it… except fall out of love." The Joker frowned as he spoke the last, and stared down, abstracted.

"That's an interesting philosophy," Bruce said coldly. "But it doesn't excuse your actions."

"Or hers?" Joker answered. "I never said it did."

Bruce didn't know how to reply. The use of reason came up against a wall when the other admitted he had no _use_ for reason. He stayed, silent, beside the mirror and watched Joker shrug out of his brilliant purple suit and slide it into a clear plastic on a hanger.

"I can have someone pick this up," Joker said casually, almost to himself. "Isn't being rich great? I think this is the third time I've changed clothes today."

Bruce stared at him, bemused. "I suppose so," he said. But he startled when the Joker reached unselfconsciously to unbutton his shirt.

"I should go…" he murmured.

Joker paused, and looked at him. "Don't worry," he said, with a wink, "I'm not going to take my pants off."

Bruce frowned. He wanted to protest without knowing what he was protesting, and he realized that doing so would only embarrass him further. The Joker unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off with one swift motion, shoving it into his bag; then he picked out a new one.

He had an undershirt on, but even so, Bruce could see the edges of more bruises across his chest and shoulderblades, startling in their intensity. He wondered how many more were still hidden. He thought he should feel something sympathetic, or maybe vindictive, but he felt neither. He wondered if he had ever bruised the Joker like that; tried to imagine the pattern overlaying his skin, and felt a sudden hot anger, displaced without direction. He saw Harley holding the pole, the size, shape, and weight of it—it looked like a nightstick. (He made a note to check to see if he could find the stolen item.) How had she done it? How had she caught the Joker off-guard? Or had it been some sort of trade, a punishment earned for not buying her out sooner? Bruce felt the rod in his own hand, Harley fading into the background, and wondered what it would feel like when he swung.

The Joker turned back to him, buttoning up a pale green shirt with an overlay of diamonds—an appeasement for his upcoming meeting with Harley?—and looked at Bruce with a knowing expression.

Just before Bruce could diffuse the moment with something normal, the Joker spoke. "I'd love to stay and chat, doll, but we don't want to keep my girl waiting, do we?" he asked, picking up the bag and blowing Bruce a kiss, eyes sparkling. And he walked out of the door, letting it fall back behind him.

/

The color scheme was almost tasteful this time, Bruce noted. It was, no doubt, Harley's influence—the coincidence was too great otherwise. She was having a grand time, swishing around the room in a bright red dress in the latest fashion. Her hair was down, and styled in waves to her shoulders, and she was wearing sparkling gold jewelry—perhaps a _tad_ too much. He could hear her voice from across the room, laughing and chipper—a strange contrast to her grown-up, almost respectable appearance. She spent much of her time, when not greeting others, chatting casually, and acting as hostess, with Veronica, Bruce noticed. The two had seemed to hit it off surprisingly well last time they met—or maybe not so surprisingly. They had similar qualities—free spirits, adventurous hearts, and a bit of a disconnect from reality. A friendship between Vreeland and Quinn could even be a good thing—he'd always known that much of what kept Harley tied to her villainous ways was the fact that all of her social life and friends were among the criminal elements.

Then there was, of course, the reunited couple. It was hard to say how much of the act was genuine, although some of it must be—neither of them would have bothered if they hadn't been in the mood. Right from their entrance, Harley draped herself across the Joker with the sort of casual—not possessiveness, but knowledge of being possessed that dared anyone else to try to take her place. Their public displays of affection were always extreme, but it was usually easier to dismiss, with whatever threat they had planned foremost in his mind. Now, with no threat, and dressed up by the normalizing veneer of society, Bruce saw it as a romance, a relationship that had withstood the test of time and both partner's other lovers (as well as Harley's equally longstanding relationship with Ivy). It was a long time, Bruce realized, since he had gone to one of the Joker's parties (and wasn't it a function of the strangeness his life had become that the phrase wasn't strange at all) and been at loose ends, just another guest. The constant appraisal the Joker usually directed his way was absent, and it left Bruce feeling on edge. He couldn't predict what would happen now.

Yes, there was a coarseness, a low aura, that seemed to surround the Joker and Harley—but it was caught up with and inextricably tied to a sort of unpredictable vitality. It flung itself before the other couples in the room, made them seem small, faded, and petty. Bruce found himself thinking about the function of the clown, realized that despite the strangeness, nothing about _them_ had changed. They were the same as they ever were. But the mirror they threw up now was clearer, enhanced by the surroundings, and they were playing to a different audience.

There was something more disturbing about it, now, within this space, than every fight, every villainous scheme Bruce had ever been entangled in. It made Bruce feel stifled, brought to the surface his ignored longing for the dark, the city streets. _How can they bear it?_ he thought; seeing them, for a moment, as fellow denizens lost in a strange land, a moment of pure connection and sympathy.

Then the thought registered, and Bruce put it aside as frivolous, unimportant, and wrong.

/

"Bruce! It's been ages!" With that, Harley launched herself into his arms; Bruce managed to prepare himself in time to catch her exuberant hug before she pulled back, grinning. "Hey, puddin', you never said he was _that_ Bruce Wayne! You remember me, don't you?" she asked, playfully flirtatious.

"You were shopping, with hyenas," Bruce answered drily. "Yes, I remember."

"Well, I've never heard _that_ story," Joker said.

"Oh, that was just the time me and Veronica got chased by a tank—you remember that, I told you all about it," Harley said. She skipped back over to the Joker and looped a casual arm around his waist; he put an answering arm around her—slightly too tightly to be comfortable. "Ah, of course," he said, his tone a study in benevolent unconcern.

"Like I always say," Harley cut in with an easy motion, before the space after the Joker's words could unfurl the tension that had been present in them, "Any friend of Mistah J is a friend of mine!" She beamed at Bruce, an unselfconscious, thousand-watt grin that made her look more truly beautiful than any of the curls, diamonds, and dresses.

"Well, I wouldn't say—" Bruce equivocated. "…acquaintances, maybe,"

"Come now, don't be shy!" Joker said, with a sudden intense, focused enthusiasm that made many people nervous—above and beyond the fact that he was _The_ Joker. He reached forward, as though to pull Bruce into a comradely side-hug; Bruce tried to resist without seeming to step back, and it ended up as a sort of lingering touch on his arm. "We've known each other for months now! I think that's as good a basis for a friendship as any."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "If that's all there is to it, my auditor is my best friend."

Joker laughed, loud and veering, and filled as always with real mirth, but absent the dangerous cruelty that sometimes chilled the air. "Now that's what I like about you, Bruce—you have a sense of humor."

Bruce smiled thinly. He wished, again, that he had resisted the urge to come back with repartee; absent the control, and the clear delineations of danger, that bantering as Batman had, he felt himself getting caught up in the moment, throwing volleys without intent to harm.

But was a lack of intent to harm so very dangerous?

Anything with the Joker was. Anything that didn't push him away allowed him to get closer, and the clown was dangerously charismatic—it was that, more than any definition of mental illness, that got him sent to Arkham again and again, that brought doctor after doctor to buy into his stories until he twisted the truth right back on itself, that allowed him to pull off the incredible feat of giving away Joker masks in Gotham Square on New Years Eve and have everyone _wear them_, uncaring of the danger. He, and the other villains of Gotham, were Gotham's greatest claim to fame, its notoriety, and in a twisted way, its celebrities.

.

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	5. Chapter 5

The apparent perseverance to Joker going straight was disturbing. At one week it was understandable—at a three months, Bruce was poised every moment to discover the hidden truth, the Joker's real plan. Every moment when the betrayal didn't occur wore at him, made him anxious and irritable—it felt like there was something hiding in plain sight, it felt like a _cheat_, this twist in whatever game the two were playing.

It was easy enough to wander out of sight away from the main rooms where most of the other guests lingered, and Bruce walked down the third floor corridor, trying doors and peeking in. He wanted to take his chance with the most plausible option first—perhaps a study. A locked door caught his attention, and he bent down, looking through the keyhole. An unused room, to all appearances—a smaller dining area that could fit a long table and sideboard; mostly unfurnished except for those items. Odds and ends, a few cardboard boxes piled on top of one another. He stood up, slipped a lock-pick into his hand, and slid them inside the lock.

"Looking for something?"

Bruce turned around, palming the wires back into his sleeve. "Harley."

"The bathroom's that way, you know," she said, with a shrugging gesture. He didn't move. "What's behind that door?"

"Oh, nothing much."

"I was just wondering." Harley looked at him, a considering expression slipping past her childlike face so quickly that if he hadn't already realized there was more to her than the appearance she liked to present, he would have sworn he was imagining it.

There was something both obvious and impossible about that look, like she was sharing a joke with him that he hadn't realized he was in on. Then she smiled brightly. "Well, it's not the best place for a tour—I'll tell ya that—but why not?" She reached into a slit in her dress, drew out a key-ring and unlocked the door, flinging it open.

Bruce stepped inside. He knew already there couldn't be anything incriminating in the room—Harley's gesture revealed that clearly enough—but he still took the time to walk around every wall, as though hoping some sudden clue would jump out at him. He was aware all the time of Harley standing in the doorway, watching him, and though Bruce was very immune to social embarrassment—it was almost a necessity in his line of work—he found himself berating his foolishness, and his stubborn pride, in so determined, so incredibly ridiculous an action as opening every empty drawer in the long sideboard.

In one drawer there was the original receipt for the item of furniture.

In the center of the table were the cardboard boxes—he opened them, took the items out. There were a few keepsakes, mostly strange and cheap, without apparent value. There were two boxes full of books; a haphazard mixture of classic novels and trashy romance. There were some old newspapers, cut out to articles of Batman, and novelty Christmas ornaments—plain white plastic with clear, colored wrappers, featuring famous comedians. Bruce took out each item, and then put them back, carefully. It was not surprising in the least, as if he had known what all would be there, and yet it was incomprehensible.

"What is all this?" Bruce asked at last.

"What do you mean?" Harley asked, genuinely puzzled, as she came forward to peruse the boxes with him. "It's just stuff."

"Stuff," Bruce repeated.

"You know, stuff we—bought, stole," she laughed a little, "found lying around and wanted to keep, and couldn't be bothered to unpack when we moved. You're a billionaire—you've gotta have stuff, right? Is that not a rich people thing?"

Bruce stared at her. "No… rich people have stuff too," he said at last. He felt thrown, more confused than he ought to be. He thought of the Batcave, filled with paraphernalia from his cases, displays for the most outlandish or the most personal, a kind of clutter of things that he had accumulated over the years, that belonged to him because of accident and meaning, not because they fit the catalog of what was in style or antique or looked good with the house.

"Okay…" Harley said at last. "Uh, you wanna get outta here? 'Cause me, I think the party would be more fun, but if you wanna stick around in this dump, be my guest."

"No," Bruce said. "No, it's all right." He smiled at her, slightly. "Thanks for the tour."

"No problem," Harley said.

/

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Ernie said, tugging on his black ski mask.

"Of course it is," Gabe said, parking the getaway car and gesturing to the other men to get out. "It's just a simple stick-up."

"Yeah, but… I heard that _he_ might be there."

Gabe scowled. "Yeah, whatever. I don't buy it. Anyway, it's too good a chance to pass up. Come on!"

They filed their way quickly into the building, guns out. As expected, none of these pansies even thought about fighting back. This was going to be way too easy, Gabe thought. The group spilled into the big swanky room where the party was being held, herding all the partygoers into one group.

"kay," Gabe said, slowly, pointing at the frightened hostages with his gun. "We're gonna do this all orderly, like, everyone stick their watches in the bag. An be quick about it. More'n five minutes and I shoot."

Joker raised his hand. Gabe stopped a minute, looked, put-off, at the garishly dressed figure waving his arm in the air like he wanted to be picked for dodgeball.

"You have somethin' to say?" he asked at last, reluctantly.

"If you take our watches first, how do we know if it's been five minutes?" asked Joker.

Gabe frowned. He stared into the Joker's expectant face.

"Never mind," he muttered, when the silence stretched on. "Stick the jewels in first." Turning away from the man, he waved at the end of the line with his gun to remind them who was in charge here.

"Whadda you want with a bunch of jewels anyway?" the Joker stage-whispered, very loudly, "don't have any yourself?" He made a crude gesture.

Gabe spun on his heel, taking a deliberate step toward the unconcerned figure and raising his gun. "Shut your mouth, clown," he growled.

A sudden grip on his arm stopped him in his tracks, and he turned to look at the pale face of his second-in-command, red and sweating.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, glaring.

Ernie leaned forward, hissing into his ear. "He's the _Joker_."

Gabe snorted. He'd been scared before, but the high of the heist—and Joker's gibe—had him disregarding anything his common sense might have told him. "Yeah well _I_ hear he got declawed." He turned toward the figure still standing before them. "Ain't that right?" he asked, nastily.

"Oh yes, yes." Joker nodded earnestly. "I don't use _these_ things anymore," he continued, pulling ten knives and a rubber chicken out of his sleeves.

"We should go, boss," Ernie said.

"Not without your valuables," Gabe answered, louder, gesturing sharply toward the bag with his gun.

"Well if you insist," Joker said forlornly, putting his rubber chicken gently into the bag with earnest, tear-filled eyes.

It lay in the bottom of the otherwise empty sack, looking limp.

Gabe hesitated, insulted and frightened, not sure if he should ask Joker to remove the item or not.

The choice was taken from him when with a sudden rush the floor-to-ceiling doors leading to the balcony shattered and the dark shape of the Batman swooped into the hall.

With hardly a glance aside, he stepped to the frightened robbers, grabbing and breaking their gun and tossing it aside.

In another moment he had a rope in his hands, and staring down at the two men, backed them against the nearby pillar. Carefully and slowly, he tied them up, finishing the last knot with a yank.

"I'd advise you not to attempt any escape," he said. "The police are coming up the stairs right now, and you don't want to make this any harder on yourselves by resisting arrest. _Do you_."

He turned and strode away with disgust. Joker, who had been watching the scene with wide eyes and utter rapture, blinked as he saw the caped crusader leaving the room _without even glancing at him_.

For a moment all the Joker could do was stare after him, gaping, in complete and utter shock. Batman hadn't noticed him. No. Worse than that—Batman had ignored him.

He was just reaching the window when the Joker sprang into action, scrambling for a knife he had thrown on the ground and launching it toward the Dark Knight's retreating form. There was a clang, and it clattered to the ground, deflected off of Batman's suddenly-raised arm.

At least he was looking at him now.

"Well?" Joker asked, fuming. He stepped forward, hands held wide. "Do you have anything to say?"

Batman paused. "Your aim was off."

"That's _it_?!" Joker shrieked. "I haven't seen you for months and _that's it_?!" He stepped forward as Batman flung himself out the window into the sky.

"What do you think you're doing!" he shouted. "Come back here!" he stomped his foot onto the crushed glass blown in from the window. After another moment, he bent down, grabbed a piece of glass, and hurled it fruitlessly after the now-speck in the distance.

"Who does he think he is," he growled. He grabbed another piece and threw it out the hole, then wiped his hand, cut and suddenly bloody, on his coat in distraction. There was a sudden noise in the room that had him turning around. The police had entered, and the panicked natives were now milling around in a state of bewildered confusion as the would-be robbers were taken away. One of the officers had a gathering of knives in his hands. He stared down at them doubtfully. "These part of the robbery?"

Joker strode across the room toward the altercation. He was gratified to see the man flinch as he grabbed the knives back. "No," he said, pointedly. "Those are _mine_." He held them protectively against his chest.

There was an awkward silence. The officer seemed to be trying to look past him without meeting his eyes. Finally, he spoke in a slightly strangled voice. "Joker."

"Archie," Joker said back, with dignity.

"Guess you're all right then."

There was a pause, during which the officer glanced down. He noticed the Joker's bleeding hand, stared at it a moment, and then said, grudgingly, "There's a medic in the corner."

Joker replaced his knives in his sleeves. "I'll be fine," he said. He put on a pair of gloves and smiled tightly.

/

It was… unsettling, seeing the Joker on the other side of one of these heists. Batman kept waiting for the punchline, the sudden turn. But the Joker was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had, in fact, nothing to do with these wannabe robbers at all. There was no reason to stay. There was no reason to interact with the clown as Batman—he could surveil him as Bruce Wayne just as well.

"So you just… left him there?"

"Yes," Bruce said.

"Just like that?"

Bruce scowled at Dick's incredulous expression. "What should I have done?"

"I don't know… accompany him to the police station? Make sure he doesn't cause trouble?"

"He wasn't causing any trouble."

"You said he tried to stab you."

"He threw a knife at me," Bruce said. "It wasn't calculated, he was just furious that I was ignoring him."

"So you decided… you should ignore him more."

"I thought you all were of the opinion that I pay too much attention to the Joker as it is."

"Hey, that's Tim's theory, not mine," Dick said, hands raised in surrender. "I'm just questioning your train of thought here. If he was emotionally unstable, shouldn't leaving him to the police be the _last_ thing you do?"

Dick was right, Bruce thought. He should have followed the Joker. Should have spoken to the police about him, at the very least. He didn't know why he hadn't.

"The Joker's doing fine," Bruce said at last. "Having Batman near him… wouldn't do him any good." There was something to what they said about the Joker's obsession with Batman. He'd felt it himself. Surely having the caped crusader dogging his movements when he was finally going straight would only encourage him.

The idea had merit, but it sat wrong in his gut. _No,_ he thought. _It's not like he means any of it anyway. Why give him the satisfaction of falling for his ploy?_

"…All right," Dick said. "Do you want me to check in instead?"

"That would probably be wise," Bruce said. In the meanwhile, he had a lead of his own relating to the Joker, and whatever plan he was hatching up. The new—now ex—henchgirl.

.

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	6. Chapter 6

Jessica Shift—the erstwhile fake Harley—was smoking out her window and when Batman lowered himself into view, she gasped, fumbled and dropped her cigarette, stepping back into her house and looking around for an exit. Batman let himself in and stood in front of the window, arms crossed.

"I didn't do anything, I swear!" Shift said. Her voice started out low, ended on a false high-note.

"Didn't you," Batman said at last. "You're the replacement Harley Quinn."

"Was," Jessica interjected quickly. "It's over. I'm not getting into that anymore." She walked two steps out of her tiny kitchen; into the living room, decorated in shades of beige. Batman followed her.

"Why did you get into it in the first place?"

She laughed shortly—grating and sharp, with an uncontrolled edge. "Money, why else?"

Batman tried to keep away from bias, but he couldn't help the intense dislike he felt for her already, and that seemed to be growing with every action she made.

"Answer my questions, and then I'll leave," Batman said. "What did the Joker want from you?"

Shift snorted. "He wanted me to stand and look pretty for him. He didn't touch me, if that's what you're asking. I thought of that, but hey—with what he was paying, I might've considered it."

It hadn't been what Batman was asking. It wasn't that he didn't think the Joker was capable of such an act, but if he was going to pay for sex, he would have gone to a professional. No, this—Batman looked at her through a different eye. Imagine the girl in the suit, face made up—yes, she would have looked like Harley, almost exactly like her. Out of costume, she had a tired face, a cynical, opportunistic look her eyes. Her makeup was flawless, done to make her look younger, though she couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Her only striking feature was her brunette hair, reaching to her shoulders.

She was the farthest thing from Harley possible.

"What did he talk about when you were around? Did he try to involve you in criminal dealings?"

"Talk about?" Jessica frowned and sat down on the sagging couch. There was a run in her stockings. "Money, mostly. You. I don't know, he went on and on. I didn't really listen."

The listless disinterest in her voice wasn't feigned; she hadn't paid close attention. Batman tamped down his annoyance. "_Were you_ involved in criminal dealings? I won't go after you, but I need to know if he planned anything."

Jessica leaned back, stared at him in frank confusion. "No, nothin' like that. He had all the money he wanted, you know? He wasn't going to blow it, get himself kicked back in Blackgate or Arkham."

"Then why the henchgirl? Why the base of operations? What was the point?"

He didn't really expect an answer.

Jessica shrugged. "He just… hung out there. Ordered people around, I guess." She fiddled with her hands, gave herself a reason to look away from Batman's blank white stare, picked at weeks-old nail polish. "Maybe it just felt more like home than the big mansion he bought."

"He brought you there?"

"Once or twice. Never past the public spaces—front hall, that sort of thing."

There didn't seem to be anything else to ask. Batman watched her, and wondered why she was still alive. To all appearances, it looked like the Joker had just… let her go.

Jessica looked up at him. Something in his stillness seemed to speak to her, or maybe it was the simple fact that he had not left. Her eyes were suddenly calculating, and she leaned back, crossed her legs, relaxed from her defensive posture to something more powerful, an imitation of a supervillain's predatory grace. It was amateur, badly done, but the effect remained. "Anything else you wanna know?" She giggled. Her natural voice was pitched to the limit, the already harsh edges amplified. "I'm sure I can remember a few more things about Mister G." She laughed again. "He was a real swell guy."

Batman stepped forward, and stopped himself, reining in a volatile mix of sudden anger and disgust. Jessica glanced at him from behind her fingernails, coy and insistent, then, like a switch, she dropped the act. "You want me to get my costume?" she drawled.

"I think we're finished here," Batman said at last.

"Too bad," Jessica said. She watched him as he walked out of the room; stood up like she was drawn by the vortex left behind. At the window, he paused.

"It's J."

"What?"

"She calls him, 'Mister J.' It's short for his name. Joker."

He threw himself from the window, watching the small square entry-point dwindle and disappear.

/

The corridors of Arkham were familiar to Harley—first from her time as a doctor, then as a patient within its walls. But it felt strange to be entering as a guest, going in without really _going in_. Harley had on a red pantsuit, something both businesslike and bold. She had dithered over the glasses—she could never quite get over the idea that they made her look distinguished, but finally she ditched it for being too obvious. She didn't want to remind everyone of her ill-fated doctor days. Everyone was really nice to her on the way in, but she could tell they were thinking that she'd just bought her way out—doctors, guards, and villains alike. Well, she didn't care. She'd got out, hadn't she? And now she was going straight. Only this time there would be no temptations to stray back into a life of crime. She had her money, she had her puddin', and soon, very soon, she'd have her girlfriend too.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Harley asked, shocked. She and Ivy sat together in the low security visiting area—despite Ivy's fanatical actions outside of Arkham, when incarcerated, she always behaved herself quite admirably unless provoked, pouring all of her energy into whatever plants the staff saw fit to give her, and so she had been allowed into the visitors lounge—a fact Harley had been counting on, as it gave them enough space from the guards for her to whisper her plan. "Don't you wanna get out of here?"

"Of course I do," Ivy said, leaning back. She eyed Harley critically. The two were a strange pair—Harley all dressed up as though she was going for a job interview, Ivy in the bluish-gray Arkham jumpsuit. Harley's put-on composure had began to break down, and in her bewildered face Pamela saw her friend's desire to help her and have her near. She sighed. "Oh Harl. It's really sweet of you—but it wouldn't matter. What would I do with 'freedom', if it's constrained by the bounds society deems acceptable?"

Harley stared back at her, persistently not getting it.

"I'm not going to stop being a villain," Ivy said simply.

"But… why not?" Harley asked, throwing her hands emphatically into the air. A nearby guard looked cursorily their way.

"Don't you understand?" Ivy asked. She glanced away, out the window to the real world—a grassy hill, green trees—oh, how she was tempted! But she knew her own heart. Quite apart from the fact that she would never take any money of the Joker's if her life depended on it, she wouldn't be able to resist making a statement, and she wasn't going to be bribed from her crusade, her justice. "If I take you up and then I'm caught doing something illegal, it's going to come back to you. And you don't deserve that, Harley. If you want to get out—get out. I wish you all the best."

Tears gathered in Harley's eyes and her lip quivered, but she composed herself. Ivy's tolerance for what she termed Harley's "over-emotionalism" differed. It worked well enough for wheedling things out of her, but if Ivy wanted to have a serious conversation she wouldn't appreciate it. Harley took a deep breath and crossed her arms. "Ok, I get that," she said firmly. "But what you don't understand is—_I don't care_. Who knows how long any of this is gonna last? Can't you just take a gift instead of worrying about the future?"

"Someone has to," Ivy replied, wryly. Her mouth quirked up. Then she reached forward and took Harley's hand in her own. "Oh sweetie, I understand how much this matters to you, but you can't convince me—not on this one."

"Fine then," Harley said stiffly, snatching her hand away. "But you'll regret it." Despite her cold words, she couldn't bring herself to get up, and at last Ivy reached forward to pull her into a hug.

"I'll always be happy for you to visit me," Ivy said softly. "You know I wouldn't be sitting out here for anyone else."

Harley stopped sniffling at last and pulled herself away. Her nose was running, and her face was streaky with tears. Ivy reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, which Harley took gratefully and blew her nose on with a honk. Of course she had forgotten one of her own, Ivy thought with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

"Five minutes," the guard called out.

For a few minutes longer, they merely sat there in silence, before, all of a sudden, just as the clock ticked its way around to the last minute, Harley cried out, "Oh Red, you know I love ya."

"I love you too, Harl."

Ivy was quite prepared for when Harley launched herself into Ivy's arms, and thought to herself that it would have been nice if Harley had decided to make out before they had less than forty-five seconds left.

/

Joker swirled the wine around his glass. It glimmered with the firelight, shining where it touched his lipstick, red on red. "Have you ever had a relationship just end?" he asked. "A long-term one. You thought it would last, but one day, no one's there. No calls, just…" he made the slashing motion of a knife over his throat. "Nothing."

Bruce watched him, confused; his mind conjured the image of a hapless girl caught by the Joker's charm, being held against him while he sliced her throat. The words took some time to come through, and when they did, he laughed shortly. If the Joker was worried about Harley leaving him, he needn't be—she'd wound herself so tightly into his life it was a wonder he didn't feel it strangling him.

"Have you?" the Joker persisted.

"Once." Bruce didn't know what possessed him to say that; he stared at his own drink, trying to remember how much he and the Joker had had—but all that really came to him was the hazy memory of there always being enough to pour more.

"How did it happen? How did you know…" the Joker tilted his hand, let the wine slosh to the side of the cup, one drop hovering on the edge before spilling over. "…_Why_?"

"I knew when she left me," Bruce said at last, with grim humor. "We were going to get married. It's probably for the best." It still hurt, strangely, to talk about Andrea; like a phantom sting of cold. He'd fallen in love many times, but she had been the only woman who had really made him reconsider being Batman at all. He had loved her with more of himself, perhaps, than he had ever let himself love anyone after her.

"But why does that happen? Why would someone just… leave?"

"I don't know," Bruce said. He took another sip of his wine, grimacing as he tasted the dregs—they'd finished another bottle. He set it carefully on the table beside them.

When Joker turned to him, there was an edge to his expression that Bruce found unfamiliar. It captivated him, and he turned it over in his mind, trying to make it fit into what he knew of the clown. It didn't. "I don't know what I'll do," Joker said, almost a whisper. "If…" he paused, and Bruce caught his breath. Joker's almost-black eyes glinted green, like the edge of a knife when it caught the sun. "You've been a good friend, Bruce," he said at last. "I don't know… if you know that, but I appreciate it." He set down his glass.

When his ungloved hand reached across the table to Bruce's, he flinched, but the Joker's hand felt like nothing more than human skin, dry and warm. Joker watched him carefully, then made to pull away. But Bruce tightened his grip, and noticed the steadiness in the way the Joker's movements stilled, the sudden increase in focus, like the predator, catching sight of its prey, waiting. There was a sudden sharp surge of adrenaline in his body, responding to the possibility of danger.

Joker reached out with his other hand, slow and cautious, as though not to spook him, and Bruce felt through the layers of his clothes the warm pressure on his arm, still light, not quite there. He was guided forward, gently, his elbows digging into the side table, and then his face was closer to the Joker's than it had ever been, and he watched from an inch away, fascinated, the blue veins under his skin. When he reached up, he could feel the fragility of it. He brushed his fingers back, into the Joker's hair, the softness between his fingers like an impossibility. For a moment, he could feel the breath as Joker exhaled on his own mouth, and it didn't feel strange at all.

Then he pulled his hand back with a jerk. When he stood, his head spun, and he caught the edge of his chair. The Joker watched him with an unreadable expression, and didn't reach after him.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said. "I have to go." He walked out of the sitting room as fast as he could, calling the attention of one of the servants in the hall, and buttoned the coat he was handed with somewhat debatable success. When he stepped into the cool fall air, it hit him bracingly, driving out the muddied warmth of the room inside. A driver was waiting to take him home, and he slid into the back seat, pressing his hands to his eyes. His head was starting to pound, and his mouth felt dry and unpleasant.

He told himself he didn't know what had almost happened. And, when the car rumbled slowly to life and drove away from the purple and green mansion looking like nothing but shades of grey in the dark, he could almost believe it.

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	7. Chapter 7

_SMASH!_ Harley ducked out of the way as Joker threw a wine-glass wildly in her general direction. He was pacing the room, which already showed signs that he had been trashing the place for hours—scuff-marks where he'd kicked the furniture; a few holes in the walls, stuff overturned and scattered. At least the fire in the grate seemed to have gone out of its own accord before he tried to throw a burning log and set the whole place on fire.

"Mistah J?" Harley asked, stepping inside and easing the door closed. "What's wrong?"

"I can't take it anymore, Harley!" Joker said. "Batman's been ignoring me! _Me_!"

Oh, this again, Harley thought.

"You don't know that, puddin'," she said, trying to sound upbeat. "Maybe he's—"

"Yes?" Joker said, turning on her with a scathing look in his eyes. "Maybe he's _what_?"

"…Busy?"

Joker sank down into an armchair, his head in his hands. "He always keeps tabs when a villain's trying to go straight. _Always_. Except not for me," he added, with a dark growl. "Apparently I'm not worth it." A moment later he was pleading. "Doesn't he like me anymore?"

"Where's your friend?" Harley asked, trying to steer the conversation from a track the Joker could worry himself into for hours.

"Friend?" Joker said.

"Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce Wayne?" Joker scoffed. "He left."

"Doesn't sound like him," Harley said, walking carefully up to the Joker.

"He left because I tried to kiss him," Joker pronounced, with a dismal tone. "I knew it was a bad idea, but for a moment he seemed interested. Then…" he waved one hand in a gesture toward the door. "Emotionally repressed bastard," he growled. "Emotionally repressed Bat. What am I supposed to do with them?"

His lethargy was on the point of rage again. Harley kneeled down, catching his eyes. "Come to bed with me?" she said. "Please?" If she was in her costume it would have been easier. Out of it, she sometimes had the feeling the Joker didn't even recognize her. But after a moment his gaze cleared.

"Harley…" he said.

"Come to bed with me, puddin'," she coaxed, softly. When he stopped looking so angry and instead seemed more tired, she dared to reach for his hands, sliding her own hands over them, brushing her fingers across his skin. Joker's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when she stood up, he followed her without protest, leaning on her for support as they wandered down the hallways to the nearest bedroom in this monstrosity of a house.

She lowered him down to sit on the edge of the bed and tried to move, but the Joker tightened his hands around her waist, burying his face against her chest. "Don't…" he said. "Don't leave me, Harley. Don't leave me."

"I'm not gonna leave you, Mistah J, I'm just gonna put on a nighty and brush my teeth…"

Joker was shaking. "Don't leave me," he said again.

Harley sighed, toeing off her shoes. "All right. All right, puddin', don't worry. I'm right here. Scooch over." She pushed him until he crawled under the covers and followed in after him. As soon as she did, he was clinging onto her again. His quick, unsteady breaths had turned to real crying, with hot, ugly tears. She held him close. "Shhh. Shhh. It'll be all right. I'm not gonna leave you." She pressed soft kisses across his forehead, over his neck and chest, repeating her murmured words as she did so, until at last his grip loosened and his sobs quieted. He looked terrible—red-rimmed eyes and smeared makeup and utter desolation. She wished she could help him feel better, but all she could do was hold him, until he fell asleep.

/

The Joker tossed and turned; clung too tightly one moment and almost pushed her out of bed the next. This was why they had different bedrooms, Harley thought, staring at the ceiling as the Joker snored—she'd never get an ounce of sleep otherwise. She sighed, wishing she could call Ivy. But Ivy was in Arkham.

"You're not the only one with a dummy for a partner," Harley said, sighing, as she snuggled closer to a suddenly cuddly Joker. Why couldn't Ivy have just seen sense and come to stay with them? Although… maybe that wouldn't have turned out so well, on further consideration. But come on. They had more than enough room in here. She could take the farthest wing from Joker. Or… or the garden shed. It didn't matter to Harley. Even if she just went back to her own lair, at least she would be _out_. Who passes up a chance to be bought out of Arkham? Ivy, that's who. Didn't know a good thing when it kissed her in the face.

Bruce Wayne, though… that stung. She'd thought he was a more honorable guy than that. She could understand it, though. Probably didn't know what he had gotten himself into. Just freaked out and left. Didn't mean she couldn't want to knock him over the head with a sharp object. She _liked_ the guy. He'd seemed so good for her puddin', too. Even as just friends. Joker really hadn't had any intentions toward him. Probably, he'd been feeling down about the Batman, maybe complaining about him, and then Bruce put out the wrong vibes. That man had no idea what he actually wanted, or how to let himself have it. Must've been weird, though, hearing the Joker going on and on about his alter-ego while he was right there.

"Sometimes you just wanna be recognized for what's under the costume," Harley said, thinking out loud. "Even Batman, I guess." Even Joker.

Why else had he gone for this whole rich-person farce? Yeah, he had the money, but he didn't have to go straight. He could, though. Money would buy anything. And Joker… Joker wanted to prove that he could. That crime wasn't some compulsion for him, that he wasn't so messed up he couldn't function in 'real life.' It's one thing to throw that all away because of boredom—it's another to not be able to in the first place. She'd had her own realization of that, a while ago. You think you're just in it for the laughs, and then you realize you can't stop, and start wondering if you were ever _really_ in it for the laughs, or only fooling yourself.

Harley could do it. If she wanted to. Sure, it would be hard. Too much trouble to really try for until there was no other option, but she _could_. She wasn't so sure about Joker. There had always been one thing in his way,

and that was Batman.

"Curse you, B-man," Harley said, her voice thick. "I don't care if you can't get it together, but you'll drag him down with you."

But the Bat wasn't watching, and he couldn't hear her.

/

When Harley woke up, Joker was gone.

.

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	8. Chapter 8

Bruce had gone straight to the Batcave, stayed down there until tiredness overwhelmed him, and awoke with a pounding headache, and a sense that the day would only get worse.

"Did you have a good time partying last night, master Bruce?" Alfred said with thick disapproval rolling from his words. Alfred knew he'd been to the Joker's house last night. If he'd been drugged against his will he would have informed Alfred immediately. That left recreation. Alfred's censure was no more than his own. He couldn't figure out how he'd allowed a surveillance visit to turn into… whatever it had turned into. They'd never been alone in a house together, at night, no other guests to turn attention away. Nothing else to do but take the next glass Joker had offered. If Joker hadn't been drinking as much himself, his suspicions would have risen immediately. It would have been easier to justify stopping. But he was. They'd talked. At one point, Bruce had become aware that he was enjoying himself, the knowledge wandering in from some dim, far-off part of his mind. He strangled the notion in more drink.

Always the wrong thing to do.

And then there had been that— that…

Bruce had his share of fears. Among the worst were the ones that implicated him in the deaths of innocents, the ones that said there was something to that tired threat that was lobbed against him, that the Batman had some affinity for his villains. More than the ordinary citizen. That he would protect them, even—god. Even if it meant someone he cared about would get hurt.

He felt sick. It wasn't the hangover.

He'd always known the Joker had some magnetic influence over those who fell into his grasp. He'd always tried to deny it could affect him, yet he remembered all too clearly what had almost happened last night.

Even knowing who he was.

Murderer. Villain. Worst of the worst. There was only so far that _surveillance_ excuse could take him. He suddenly saw all that time he'd spent worrying over the Joker's motives, trying to find space to visit him at every possible opportunity, in a different light. God. Tim had been right. He was obsessed. He didn't know how to stop.

He ground his hands into his eyes, stared haggardly into the bathroom mirror. It would start today, he decided. No more answering the Joker's invitations. No more going to his parties—if he was even invited after this. If this… rejection didn't spiral the Joker into a murderous rage.

_It's not on me if it does_, Bruce thought. _I can't be responsible for his every act. I can't be. That way leads madness._

He considered calling the Joker's mansion. Leaving a message. What—apologizing? Trying to explain? His hand hovered above the receiver for minutes, while he stared agonizingly at the blinking red dot. He got as far as calling the landline, watched the answering machine pick up.

That evening, without surprise, he heard the news report that the Joker had gathered a group of hostages near the Gotham Harbor and was going to kill them, unless Batman showed up.

_I knew it_, Bruce thought, with a sick kind of satisfaction. It felt easier to put aside his own emotional guilt when there were lives on the line, when the Joker showed his hand. _I knew it all along. He was just biding his time. It was just another game, wasn't it?_

Many people had been sucked in by the Joker's games. Bruce Wayne merely another casualty. One of a statistic. Nothing more.

Batman drove into the streets of Gotham, eyes narrowed. There was a fight out there, waiting for him.

/

"Why Bats," the Joker said, and smiled grimly. "You came."

Batman took a step forward, eyeing the warehouse edge and the group of people crying, hanging from a rope. "let the hostages go."

"Of course," the Joker answered, nodding genially. "That's what I said I'd do, didn't I? But you know what…" suddenly his face turned to a scowl. "I don't think I will." Batman stepped forward to catch the rope as Joker let go, and flinched and ducked at the sudden _bang_. When he rolled out of his crouch and looked back where he had been, he could see the gun kicked away on the floor next to the fallen hostages, blood spilling crazily across the ground. It wasn't a joke-gun, there had been no flag, no punchline.

Batman growled. He leaped forward, crashing his fist against the Joker's turning figure before he could react. There was a burst of startled laughter, like a warning, before a knife slipped into his hands and Batman felt the cold press of steel in his side before he knocked it away. He grabbed the Joker's hair, yanked his head back and slammed him to the ground, his face cracking against splintered wood; Joker rolled away and came to a crouch, blood spilling out of his nose.

"What's the matter?" he said, darkly. "Aren't you having fun?"

"Why did you kill them?" Batman dove forward, ducked under the Joker's arm and grabbed the front of his shirt.

The Joker stared at him, eyes glittering and dark. "Why not?"

Then Batman was gasping at a sudden blow, twisting away as far as he could. The Joker attacked him with heightened fury, the sort that Batman had seen from him rarely, as though to match Batman's sudden rage. But if there was ever an intent to kill, it slipped away, leaving only the wish to _hurt_. There was a roiling tension in the air, a kind of frenzy. They clawed, punched, and stabbed, and every time Batman saw a way to end the fight, somehow Joker would spin away, or get in his own blow. Eventually, even rage passed over into a kind of numbed focus, the physical sensation of cracking bone and blood. Batman caught him eventually; Joker's mood had shifted like storm clouds rolling back from the horizon, and when Batman realized the change he paused.

The Joker lay on the ground, his neck pinned under Batman's arm, and when he let the pressure go slightly Joker only gasped in air and stared unfocused into the distance, grinning. In the darkness, the black of blood around his mouth was horrible. Batman touched his finger to it, digging the edge of his gauntlet down. Then he stopped.

The silence of the night seemed vast and quiet. In all the city, no one had noticed the fight on the old docks. The ever-present, faint music of sirens had faded, leaving them in a careful void.

When the Joker sat up, propping himself on one elbow, the shift of fabric dragging against wood was impossibly clear; their shared heavy breathing and the lapping of the water beside them, hidden from view by the black edges the streetlamps left behind.

Joker met Batman's eyes with a smile, tired and mischievous, and tilted his head back. His hair was in disarray, it fell over his face limp and curling in the sea breeze; the bow at his collar had come untied, dragging dirtily across his waistcoat; his skin glowed with bruises.

When Batman dragged the handcuffs out of his belt, Joker held his hands out without protest, and didn't run, (though he could have) when Batman pulled himself to his feet, hissing in pain.

"The Batmobile's that way," Batman said.

"Okay."

"You're going back to Arkham."

"Okay."

/

They didn't speak. He concentrated on the road.

/

"I'm sorry."

The light they were at turned green, but Bruce's foot stayed pressed to the brake. "What?"

He thought he must be hallucinating. He couldn't comprehend those words coming from the Joker's mouth.

"I'm sorry," the Joker said again. Bruce looked over at him. The Joker sounded calm, rational, sincere. There was no hidden mirth, no cruel twist behind his words, only an eerie calm. His smile was beautific, his eyes glowed. "I didn't understand; it was my fault. I wasn't playing the game anymore—of course we can't be enemies if I'm not a villain! You didn't forget me, you were waiting for me to remember the rules." In the light, he looked otherwordly, almost seraphic, filled with a fanatical purpose. "You thought I'd abandoned you." His smile turned soft, and he laid his hand on Batman's arm. "You reminded me of my purpose. I won't forget again, I promise. I won't leave you alone out there in the dark."

That's not what happened. Bruce stopped himself from speaking. Did you think I _wanted_ this? Did you think I _encouraged_ this? I knew you wouldn't be able to walk away from crime; and I was right, wasn't I? You couldn't stop yourself from making a scene, trying to get my attention. I knew this would happen. I knew you couldn't stay away—

_He's right._

The cars behind them beeped once or twice, then streamed cautiously around the idling Batmobile; no one quite brave enough to turn it into a fight. Bruce gripped the wheel so tightly his hands clenched, sending pain signals back up his arm. The light ahead of them seemed to blur.

The last car went past, there was space to move, and he turned right without bothering to signal, veering into the dark alleyways of the Narrows and away from the perfect dome of Arkham Hill, looming above them like a black-shadowed stain in the distance. Then he cut the gas.

Outside, a momentary breeze skittered a few pieces of trash along the ground. Away from the streetlamps, the walls of the buildings around them, the rusting fire escapes and the pyramids of trashcans all faded into the uniformity of night.

"…Bats?" Joker's voice was uncertain. "What are you doing?"

He was holding the wheel but staring out at nothing in particular. The space under his chest seemed to constrict, the breath struggling out of him like it was someone else's air.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

The Joker turned away, turned back; the confusion on his face painted him vulnerable, pitiful. Human.

"Then why are you laughing?"

"No reason… No reason at all."

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End file.
